Chapter 22
Mrs. Cecelia Wentworth lived in a white stucco terrace house on Bayswater Road, which I reached in record time thanks to my very unladylike stride.
I barely had time to catch my breath before I was ushered inside to a light-filled entryway tastefully painted in shades of cream, with framed botanical prints artfully displayed on the walls.
I faintly recalled that Cecelia had had a particular interest in biology at school.
I handed my card to the butler, who immediately escorted me to the drawing room, where Cecelia was waiting.
“Minnie!” she said with a genuine smile as she hurried over and pulled me into a tight hug. “I’m so glad you came.”
I was surprised by this show of affection, as we had last had contact long ago, but it was welcome. “Thank you for inviting me.”
She then pulled back and gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit.”
Like the entryway, this room was also decorated in calming shades of cream and gold.
“What a beautiful room,” I said as I took in the space. The botanical theme continued in here, with drapes in a leaf-printed pattern of green and white, along with furniture in a pale pink floral brocade.
Cecelia beamed. “I decorated it myself.”
“You are very talented.”
She ducked her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I needed something to occupy my time after my marriage. I started drawing botanical prints, and things slowly came together from there.”
“Those are yours framed in the entryway? They’re marvelous.”
“Thank you. It was a bit difficult for me, especially after Girton,” she added with a knowing look.
“You spend all that time and effort earning an education, and then once you return to the outside world, no one really cares. You’re supposed to be perfectly happy managing a household and having children.
I love my children, of course. But … it wasn’t enough,” she admitted with a shy glance at me.
I hummed in agreement. “I understand completely.”
She relaxed a little and began to pour our tea. “Well, Greece must have been a marvelous adventure. Your mother said you lived in Athens before Corfu. Did you visit the sites there often?”
“Not often, no,” I replied. “In truth, most of my days were spent managing the household and mothering.” I flashed her a smile. “It’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve begun to focus on myself a little more.”
A faint blush stained her cheeks. “Of course. I know how lucky I am to have the time and resources to dabble in my little activities.”
“Don’t dismiss yourself,” I said. “I think it’s wonderful what you’ve done. My path has just been … different.”
Her eyes softened. “I was so sorry to hear about your husband. My husband, Gerald, was as well. They knew each other at Cambridge.”
“Did they? I had no idea.”
“Yes.” Then she perked up. “He gave me something to show you, actually. Here, let me fetch it.”
Cecelia crossed the room to a small writing desk and picked up a leather-bound folder. “It’s a photograph from a dig in Greece that they attended one summer with some other fellows from their Hellenic club.”
“How lovely.” I vaguely remembered Oliver telling me about that. His father refused to pay for his passage, so he talked his way onto a shipping vessel and worked alongside the crew all the way to Greece.
Cecelia sat beside me and handed me the opened folder.
The photograph showed a group of young men in various states of dress.
Most had shed their coats and ties and had rolled up their shirt-sleeves.
They stood outside, some holding shovels and pickaxes as props, all squinting in the sun.
I found Oliver immediately, standing front and center with his foot propped on the step of a shovel, his hand resting jauntily on the top of the handle.
He smiled broadly at the camera, and I couldn’t help smiling back.
He looked so young and happy, like there was nowhere else in the entire world he wanted to be at that very moment.
A strange sort of gladness filled my chest. His life had been cut so short.
But I was grateful that he had been able to accomplish so much with the time he had.
“That’s my Gerry there in the back row,” Cecelia said, pointing to a tall man with dark hair and round spectacles.
But my eyes were drawn to the gentleman just beside him. I frowned in confusion and drew the picture closer to my face. But no. I had not been mistaken.
“Is something wrong?” Cecelia asked.
“That man beside your husband is Lord Linden,” I said slowly. “I’m sure of it.”
Cecelia inspected the photograph and nodded. “It certainly does look like him. Though I’ve only met him in passing.”
I turned to her with a frown. “He told me he didn’t know Oliver.”
“Perhaps he forgot,” she offered. “It was an awfully long time ago.”
“Yes, but it would be rather odd to forget someone that you were in Greece with for a whole summer, wouldn’t it?”
“Then … do you think he’s lying?” Cecelia’s eyes widened, and for a moment, I envied her na?vety.
“I don’t know,” I said diplomatically, rather than discuss the murder investigation that had been taking up my time these last few weeks.
“I’ll ask Gerry when he gets home this evening,” she said. “Perhaps he would know something.”
“That would be extremely helpful.”
“Of course! I’ll write to you straightaway and make sure it’s sent first thing tomorrow.”
I stayed for another ten minutes, but I couldn’t tell you what we spoke about.
My mind whirled with any possible reason that could explain the baron’s actions.
But none of them were particularly compelling.
The simplest reason was by far the most likely one: Lord Linden had lied to me about knowing Oliver.
What remained to be seen was why. And I was determined to find out.
When I returned to Portman Square, I entered the library, still half lost in thought.
Then I stopped short and blinked at the scene before me.
Tommy was sitting on the sofa with my father, and together they were looking through a book.
Delia stood nearby, watching them with a smile on her face.
She turned at my entrance and immediately approached me.
“He’s having a good day,” she murmured, gesturing to our father.
He was giving Tommy the kind of indulgent smile Oliver had often worn when in the presence of our children, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing that expression on my father’s face before.
During my childhood, he had been even more distant than my mother.
A mixture of stern and silent that, frankly, made me feel rather nervous when he did deign to spend time with us.
At times, he seemed more like a mythical figure than a real person.
But as I watched him openly admiring my son, something pinched in my chest, and it was a moment before I realized it was envy.
Both for the man my son got to experience and for the father I could never really get to know.
“Let me take Tommy so you can talk with Father,” Delia said.
I nodded, as my gaze was still fixed upon the two of them. My son was proudly pointing out all the parts of some kind of animal, as if he was delivering a groundbreaking lecture, while my father reacted with great interest.
Delia swept over to them and held out her hand. “Tommy, darling, why don’t you and I go to the kitchen and see what treats Cook has whipped up for us.”
Tommy immediately shut the book and placed it beside him before jumping up and grabbing Delia’s hand. Then he caught sight of me. “Hello, Mama. May I have a treat?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, patting his shoulder. “But just one. Or you’ll ruin your appetite.”
Delia shot me an encouraging look as she guided Tommy out of the room.
I watched as disappointment crossed my father’s face while he followed Tommy’s retreating form, but then he noticed me.
I was relieved to see his mouth curve in a smile, though not quite as wide as the one Tommy conjured.
But then I wasn’t nearly as charming as my son.
“Hello, Father,” I said, taking the now empty seat beside him.
“Delia said you would be back.”
She had been right. His gaze seemed sharper than it had either of the other times I had seen him, though admittedly it was still but a shadow of what it had been.
As terrifying and distant as he could be, my father had long been considered one of the best financial minds in London.
He had likely forgotten more than most people would ever know.
How many other people suffered from this same fate?
My stomach turned at the thought. The sheer futility of it all.
“I was just calling on an old school friend who lives nearby,” I managed. “How was your visit with Tommy?”
My father chuckled. “A delightful boy. So curious and full of energy.”
“Yes, that he is,” I agreed, smiling back.
“And your daughter? Delia said she is at school here.”
I nodded. “Cleo is in Hampstead. And she’s doing quite well. I will bring her here for a proper visit over the Christmas holiday.”
“Very good. I’m sure it has been difficult for them, losing Oliver. For all of you,” he added offhandedly.
“Yes,” I rasped.
Then he reached out and patted my hand. “You’ve always been so strong. But I know what it’s like when people come to expect that of you. Sometimes the strongest among us are the ones that need the most comfort.”
I was shocked to hear this kind of insight from him. “Father,” I began, but my voice broke.
“That was why I thought Oliver would be good for you,” he continued, gazing off towards the hearth. “And why I put up with the rest of it.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze turning unfocused. “Taking you so far away. Taking all those risks.”
I inhaled and leaned closer to him, trying to draw his eyes to me. “What risks?”
“But they weren’t worth it in the end,” he murmured. “Were they?”